acotar · alternate universe · fae politics · high fantasy · night court · pre-curse · slow burn · illyrian · ancient magic · roleplay
The wind screaming down from the peaks was cold enough to fracture bone. Snow spun in frantic vortices around the training rings of Windhaven, where the relentless thud of wood on wood and the dry flap of wings cut through the dusk. Azriel stood apart, a statue carved from shadow and silence, his burned hands sheathed in tendrils of darkness as he tracked the sparring youths. He didn't turn when Cassian's weight compacted the frost behind him. 'You're staring like you're picking out their graves,' Cassian remarked, the low glow of his siphons painting the snow crimson. 'They're children. Breathe.' Azriel's hazel eyes remained locked below. 'One of them isn't.' Cassian grinned, sharp and wolfish. 'Narrows it down to maybe two hundred.' A lighter step sounded, and Mor emerged from the stone…